Socks
by benedictforthesoul
Summary: John and Sherlock shag (a lot) and form a relationship that their arch enemy butts his head into a few times too many, spoiling their fun.


John Watson sat hunched over his bed as the sun lifted from the London skyline; struggling to put on his worn out, tattered socks. Today, the state of his dinky socks reflected that of himself. John had another nightmare last night that awoke him at 3 in the morning to which he heard muffled groans seeping through the floorboards from downstairs.

He knew it had been Sherlock and yet everything he had ever known about the man told him that the hushed pants of breath and the moans that followed could not be his. Sherlock wasn't sexual, he was "married to his work". The mere suspicion that it could be the man who's skin seemed to be hand sculpted alabaster, whole galaxies and worlds pulled into his extravagant yet elegant eyes, with dark unruly curls that danced in the wind with every long stride he took puzzled the doctor.

He sat for a moment and opened his mouth to call Sherlock but quickly closed it. Never had he been so aroused in his life. This man, this _thing_, had engulfed every single one of John's fears in a matter of seconds just from the sound of his gutteral groans. John's mind _was _Sherlock. John's body and soul in that singular moment had never wanted anything more than to not live a second without seeing, hearing, smelling, or _touching _this man.

For a while now John knew that sleeping with as many women as he could was not sufficient. He knew that all he needed was Sherlock and eventually, he stopped trying to find a girlfriend. It took him so long to figure out that he was indeed gay and that Irene Adler was in fact right about his love for Sherlock. The moment he always tried to push out of his mind came back to his memory. Sherlock had said "Goodbye John" from the top of St. Bart's and fell to what was thought to be his death. For a year those words and that image played in his head like a loop on a record. He spent every waking second consumed by the thought of his best friend dying. As the year passed John no longer thought of him as his best friend. He became this wonderful human being that he had fallen head over heels for. When Sherlock returned, something else had happened. John was asleep in Sherlock's bed as he did every night since he died. He awoke to the padding of footsteps and the sudden warmth of a tall, slender man snaked under the covers next to him. The man whispered what had really happened a year ago. John's mind again stopped and his spine shivered convulsively, trying not to remember that night. He held his breath as if his life depended on the need to hear the groans grow louder from below as Sherlock came. And in the dead silence, Sherlock finished wanking with a stifled

"J- Johhhhhhhnnn!".

John choked loudly with surprise and the flat once again stilled. Before he himself had a chance to think, John bolted down the stairs and threw Sherlock's door open. John took the entire situation in. On his bed Sherlock laid sprawled out covered in his own pasty come. His once alabaster skin was flushed pink and his eyes were hazy and calm at the sight of John standing in his doorway, much to John's surprise. Sherlock's hair was merciless and his mouth lay agape as he recovered from his orgasm. John took two step forwards, turned, and stormed out of the flat with no shoes, just briefs and a jacket. The doctor kept walking (mind you, briskly) and he heard the door to 221 Baker Street open and close behind him.

Running behind him was Sherlock 'bloody' Holmes in only his jacket. Looking well-fucked and worried as ever Sherlock reached for John's hand. With surprising strength, John was yanked back and pulled into an embrace with the tall man. John mumbled and the only audible words that escaped his mouth were "what t-the hell Sherlock?" even then, the consulting detective failed to hear him.

"John..."

"I SAID WHAT THE HELL SHERLOCK WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU FUCKING DOING?"

John pulled away and walked back to the flat, up the stairs, and into the flat where he sat against the wall next to the door. Sherlock quietly followed and yet again grabbed for John. Still hovering over him, Sherlock leaned against the wall until he sank down sitting next to John; the smell of lune, come, and sweat hung in the air like fog.

"John... I -I'm sorry if you don't- then ill just - be off -"

"Do me a favor and shut up for two seconds."

Sherlock, baffled, stared at John with unbearable intensity. John hesitated and spoke cautiously, dragging out every syllable of every specific word that he chose.

"I thought you weren't interested. You told me you were married to your work. You have never given a hint of sexual desire towards me - and for that matter towards anyone. And I was left to think I would be alone the rest of my bloody life because that's what you wanted and there was never anyone but you and all I wanted was for you to be happy AND YOU LET ME SUFFER LIKE THIS AGAIN? YOU FELT THIS WAY AND LET ME THINK YOU WERE DEAD FOR A YEAR. SHERLOCK DO YOU EVER THINK ABOUT ANYONE BUT YOURSELF?"

Sherlock Holmes sat staring out the window at a flickering street lamp. He had a comeback. A rather decent one. In a time like this he could only be witty because he had never _had_ proper feelings for anyone before. He knew he shouldn't say it but he had no other response and silence would be like 1,000 silver daggers peircing his heart.

"Well obviously John I was thinking about you as I was getting off."

John turned his head whispered "I'm done" and sauntered off to his bedroom. Each step felt like a whole new mountain to climb until finally he collapsed with sleep deprivation in front of his bed on the floor.

John Watson sat hunched over his bed as the sun lifted from the London skyline; struggling to put on his worn out, tattered socks. He wanted to get out of the flat as quickly as he could without having to see Sherlock. He had feelings for Sherlock. Strong feelings. John never understood why but he was pretty sure if the feeling came with a convienient label, it'd say love. The struggle with his socks was over as he quickly slipped on his shoes and stumbled (as quietly as possible) down the stairs to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa with his silver robe fitting loosely around his slim frame.

"John"

John stopped. Sighed. Took off his shoes and bloody socks and curled up next to Sherlock. Both were crammed on the couch but neither dared to move, squirming to be comfortable they sat there spooning, Sherlock with his back to the back of the couch and John curled up inside his arms. John broke the silence with only two words.

"Me too."

Sherlock quickly deduced that John meant that the feeling was mutual. John turned once again to look into the eternity that were his eyes, smiled, held his head and kissed him. Sherlock, slightly out of his normal routine, tried his best to kiss the doctor back. They lifted for air and Sherlock finally caught on to the kissing. John, with a slight "umph" rolled over on top of Sherlock, straddling his waist and deepening the kiss. The detective opened his mouth welcoming John's tongue, intertwining them together like two endless, blooming vines. John formed a steady, slight body rock on top of Sherlock as they both prepared for what was to come.

Sherlock with his long, statue-like fingers delicately pulled John's striped sweater over his head and unzipped his jeans. They hurriedly and lustfully returned to a kiss that was as deep as the grains of sand that sit on the bottom of the ocean. They paused panting and gasping from the intensity of the kiss and John traced the outline of the bow on Sherlock's now bright red lips with his tongue. He rested his forhead on Sherlock's, ran his fingers through his unbelievable curls feeling the tight curve in every single strand of hair that laid on his lover's head. Out of Sherlock's lips slipped the most beautiful, heart achingly, stunning words that have ever been spoken in all of time and space.

"I'm sorry, and I love you."

Reunited by the joining of lips, John repeated over and over what Sherlock said out loud.

"I'm sorry, and I love you! I'm sorry, and I l-LOVE you!"

Sherlock grinned, chuckled like he does, and stripped himself of his robe. It was not-so-gracefully thrown onto bags of mangled body parts over near the bookshelf.

A huff was let out from the army doctor as he witnessed Sherlock Holmes, hot, horny, and pale beneath him. His cock felt a tightening shot of pain. He was leaking precome like a waterfall onto Sherlock's pale stomach where his alabaster skin was dotted and claimed by John.

"Ahh!"

John got up and ran over to Sherlock's bedroom struggling to grab the large bottle of lube knocking over books and papers to get to it.

"Jooohhhhhnn!"

John ran back and jumped into a straddling position once again on Sherlock. He opened the bottle squeezing it on to his fingers as he scooted back. Laying down on his stomach with his face in front of Sherlock's cock he breathed hot air on to it. Sherlock squirmed and writhed with new found sensitivity and moaned.

"Ah ah John JOHN PLEASE!"

John smiled concealing Sherlock's cock with his mouth and sliding in a finger into his puckered hole, pausing for a reaction.

"AHHHHH OH GOD MOVE JOHN. JOHN YOU BLOODY WELL BETTER MOVE!"

John bobbed his head circling his toungue under the foreskin and hitting every single gland around it. He curled his finger inside of Sherlock to meet his prostate as the man bucked and heaved to create more friction. Words helplessly slipped from Sherlock's mouth until he sang from the pit of his groin.

"oh. Oh. OH JOHN I'M- I'M- AHHHH"

Sherlock spewed hot semen into John's mouth as there was a rap at the door.

Conflicting modification on June 18, 2013:

John Watson sat hunched over his bed as the sun lifted from the London skyline; struggling to put on his worn out, tattered socks. Today, the state of his dinky socks reflected that of himself. John had another nightmare last night that awoke him at 3 in the morning to which he heard muffled groans seeping through the floorboards from downstairs.

He knew it had been Sherlock and yet everything he had ever known about the man told him that the hushed pants of breath and the moans that followed could not be his. Sherlock wasn't sexual, he was "married to his work". The mere suspicion that it could be the man who's skin seemed to be hand sculpted alabaster, whole galaxies and worlds pulled into his extravagant yet elegant eyes, with dark unruly curls that danced in the wind with every long stride he took puzzled the doctor.

He sat for a moment and opened his mouth to call Sherlock but quickly closed it. Never had he been so aroused in his life. This man, this _thing_, had engulfed every single one of John's fears in a matter of seconds just from the sound of his gutteral groans. John's mind _was _Sherlock. John's body and soul in that singular moment had never wanted anything more than to not live a second without seeing, hearing, smelling, or _touching _this man.

For a while now John knew that sleeping with as many women as he could was not sufficient. He knew that all he needed was Sherlock and eventually, he stopped trying to find a girlfriend. It took him so long to figure out that he was indeed gay and that Irene Adler was in fact right about his love for Sherlock. The moment he always tried to push out of his mind came back to his memory. Sherlock had said "Goodbye John" from the top of St. Bart's and fell to what was thought to be his death. For a year those words and that image played in his head like a loop on a record. He spent every waking second consumed by the thought of his best friend dying. As the year passed John no longer thought of him as his best friend. He became this wonderful human being that he had fallen head over heels for. When Sherlock returned, something else had happened. John was asleep in Sherlock's bed as he did every night since he died. He awoke to the padding of footsteps and the sudden warmth of a tall, slender man snaked under the covers next to him. The man whispered what had really happened a year ago. John's mind again stopped and his spine shivered convulsively, trying not to remember that night. He held his breath as if his life depended on the need to hear the groans grow louder from below as Sherlock came. And in the dead silence, Sherlock finished wanking with a stifled

"J- Johhhhhhhnnn!".

John choked loudly with surprise and the flat once again stilled. Before he himself had a chance to think, John bolted down the stairs and threw Sherlock's door open. John took the entire situation in. On his bed Sherlock laid sprawled out covered in his own pasty come. His once alabaster skin was flushed pink and his eyes were hazy and calm at the sight of John standing in his doorway, much to John's surprise. Sherlock's hair was merciless and his mouth lay agape as he recovered from his orgasm. John took two step forwards, turned, and stormed out of the flat with no shoes, just briefs and a jacket. The doctor kept walking (mind you, briskly) and he heard the door to 221 Baker Street open and close behind him.

Running behind him was Sherlock 'bloody' Holmes in only his jacket. Looking well-fucked and worried as ever Sherlock reached for John's hand. With surprising strength, John was yanked back and pulled into an embrace with the tall man. John mumbled and the only audible words that escaped his mouth were "what t-the hell Sherlock?" even then, the consulting detective failed to hear him.

"John..."

"I SAID WHAT THE HELL SHERLOCK WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU FUCKING DOING?"

John pulled away and walked back to the flat, up the stairs, and into the flat where he sat against the wall next to the door. Sherlock quietly followed and yet again grabbed for John. Still hovering over him, Sherlock leaned against the wall until he sank down sitting next to John; the smell of lune, come, and sweat hung in the air like fog.

"John... I -I'm sorry if you don't- then ill just - be off -"

"Do me a favor and shut up for two seconds."

Sherlock, baffled, stared at John with unbearable intensity. John hesitated and spoke cautiously, dragging out every syllable of every specific word that he chose.

"I thought you weren't interested. You told me you were married to your work. You have never given a hint of sexual desire towards me - and for that matter towards anyone. And I was left to think I would be alone the rest of my bloody life because that's what you wanted and there was never anyone but you and all I wanted was for you to be happy AND YOU LET ME SUFFER LIKE THIS AGAIN? YOU FELT THIS WAY AND LET ME THINK YOU WERE DEAD FOR A YEAR. SHERLOCK DO YOU EVER THINK ABOUT ANYONE BUT YOURSELF?"

Sherlock Holmes sat staring out the window at a flickering street lamp. He had a comeback. A rather decent one. In a time like this he could only be witty because he had never _had_ proper feelings for anyone before. He knew he shouldn't say it but he had no other response and silence would be like 1,000 silver daggers peircing his heart.

"Well obviously John I was thinking about you as I was getting off."

John turned his head whispered "I'm done" and sauntered off to his bedroom. Each step felt like a whole new mountain to climb until finally he collapsed with sleep deprivation in front of his bed on the floor.

John Watson sat hunched over his bed as the sun lifted from the London skyline; struggling to put on his worn out, tattered socks. He wanted to get out of the flat as quickly as he could without having to see Sherlock. He had feelings for Sherlock. Strong feelings. John never understood why but he was pretty sure if the feeling came with a convienient label, it'd say love. The struggle with his socks was over as he quickly slipped on his shoes and stumbled (as quietly as possible) down the stairs to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa with his silver robe fitting loosely around his slim frame.

"John"

John stopped. Sighed. Took off his shoes and bloody socks and curled up next to Sherlock. Both were crammed on the couch but neither dared to move, squirming to be comfortable they sat there spooning, Sherlock with his back to the back of the couch and John curled up inside his arms. John broke the silence with only two words.

"Me too."

Sherlock quickly deduced that John meant that the feeling was mutual. John turned once again to look into the eternity that were his eyes, smiled, held his head and kissed him. Sherlock, slightly out of his normal routine, tried his best to kiss the doctor back. They lifted for air and Sherlock finally caught on to the kissing. John, with a slight "umph" rolled over on top of Sherlock, straddling his waist and deepening the kiss. The detective opened his mouth welcoming John's tongue, intertwining them together like two endless, blooming vines. John formed a steady, slight body rock on top of Sherlock as they both prepared for what was to come.

Sherlock with his long, statue-like fingers delicately pulled John's striped sweater over his head and unzipped his jeans. They hurriedly and lustfully returned to a kiss that was as deep as the grains of sand that sit on the bottom of the ocean. They paused panting and gasping from the intensity of the kiss and John traced the outline of the bow on Sherlock's now bright red lips with his tongue. He rested his forhead on Sherlock's, ran his fingers through his unbelievable curls feeling the tight curve in every single strand of hair that laid on his lover's head. Out of Sherlock's lips slipped the most beautiful, heart achingly, stunning words that have ever been spoken in all of time and space.

"I'm sorry, and I love you."

Reunited by the joining of lips, John repeated over and over what Sherlock said out loud.

"I'm sorry, and I love you! I'm sorry, and I l-LOVE you!"

Sherlock grinned, chuckled like he does, and stripped himself of his robe. It was not-so-gracefully thrown onto bags of mangled body parts over near the bookshelf.

A huff was let out from the army doctor as he witnessed Sherlock Holmes, hot, horny, and pale beneath him. His cock felt a tightening shot of pain. He was leaking precome like a waterfall onto Sherlock's pale stomach where his alabaster skin was dotted and claimed by John.

"Ahh!"

John got up and ran over to Sherlock's bedroom struggling to grab the large bottle of lube knocking over books and papers to get to it.

"Jooohhhhhnn!"

John ran back and jumped into a straddling position once again on Sherlock. He opened the bottle squeezing it on to his fingers as he scooted back. Laying down on his stomach with his face in front of Sherlock's cock he breathed hot air on to it. Sherlock squirmed and writhed with new found sensitivity and moaned.

"Ah ah John JOHN PLEASE!"

John smiled concealing Sherlock's cock with his mouth and sliding in a finger into his puckered hole, pausing for a reaction.

"AHHHHH OH GOD MOVE JOHN. JOHN YOU BLOODY WELL BETTER MOVE!"

John bobbed his head circling his toungue under the foreskin and hitting every single gland around it. He curled his finger inside of Sherlock to meet his prostate as the man bucked and heaved to create more friction. Words helplessly slipped from Sherlock's mouth until he sang from the pit of his groin.

"oh. Oh. OH JOHN I'M- I'M- AHHHH"

Sherlock spewed hot semen into Johns mouth as there was a rap at the door.

"Boys, is everything alright?"

John and Sherlock shot each other glances.

"Yes Ms. Hudson everything is quite fine if you wouldn't mind going back to bed then. Quickly now I'm thinking!"

With John's mouth full of Sherlock, he swallowed awkwardly, and erupted with laughter as Sherlock's hand swept over his mouth to shut the bloody man up. They sat up, eyes wide and hearts racing like horses on an abandoned beach.

"Well okay then dear goodnight."

Ms. Hudson trudged off until her paddering footsteps were long out of earshot. Sherlock slowly removed his hand and both of them giggled until tears were brought to their eyes. They looked at each other once more and kissed, less force, less lust, but more love hidden within the uniting of their lips.

A sense of relief flooded the room and John stood up, grabbed Sherlock's hand, and pulled him up until he was rightfully towering 5 inches above John. Hands still joined, they walked into Sherlock's room and collapsed on the bed intertwining their fingers as Sherlock planted kisses along John's jaw.

"I do love you." Sherlock said pausing before he kissed John right below his left ear. His hot breath tingling the sensitive nerves on purpose.

"Yes. Good. I love you too."

As John continued with his sentence, his voice got deeper with sleep until he closed his eyes and dozed off.

"Ehem"

John Watson woke up tightly cradled by the whole of Sherlock's body. His right arm pressed against John's chest where as his left arm was under his neck, hand resting on John's pillow. Sherlock's right leg wove protectively around the top of John's and the left laying right next to John's right leg. His face nuzzled inbetween John's shoulder blades, breathing right on his spine. What John did notice was that Sherlock was still asleep and had not coughed. He sat up, unfortunately waking his lover up as well.

"BLOODY HELL MYCROFT WHAT ARE YOU DOING GET OUT!"

John wove himself into Sherlock's white sheet with embarrassment as Sherlock popped up, now really awake, and launching himself stark naked at Mycroft who received a hateful punch to the face by Sherlock. Sherlock dragged him out by his coat collar until he was out of the flat, and rightfully locked out.

"Quickly get dressed now. Hurry John he has a key he'll just walk back in. Here."

Sherlock tossed John his pants and his trousers from the parlor. John quickly put them on and grabbed his gray jumper.

"How long do you think he was there? Sherlock? Sherlock what are you doing now?"

His dark curls bouncing around the flat as he grabbed specimen out of the fridge in only his coat.

"Sherlock you cannot just bring out body parts and do an experiment while your brother is locked outside, very aware that we shatter, and nonetheless do it in ONLY A COAT!"

"It's for science John, really. Mycroft would've already have come in, he left. He'll come back in an hour and a half presumably and _then_ I will pay attention to that- but for now, _science. _

"Well what about me Sherlock we still have things to talk about. I still have questions if that's alright."

"I told you- later."

Sherlock made a small cut of the liver and put it on a slide under the microscope to which he peered in and didn't speak any longer.

"Well fine then. I'll go get breakfast after I use the loo. Fine. Bye."

None of this is what John had in mind of 'the morning after'. Then again, it was Sherlock. And he did have a powerful, irritating brother. And they were the Holmes' and for some reason that name had a negative connotation to which John didn't feel like thinking about.

He undid the lock and walked upstairs hearing voices he did not want to hear.

"Hello John, how are you this morning?"

"Shut up Mycroft."

"Sit. Both of you."

John and Myceift took a seat as Sherlock walked over and sat on the arm of John's chair, balancing with no effort at all. Mycroft raised his eyebrows and both John and Sherlock sent him warning looks. Sherlock stood up again.

"Hmm looks like it going to bruise. Good. Now _Mycroft _-"

He spat with disgust when he said his name.

"- WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM? JOHN WATSON IS FOR ME. HE IS - he is my only friend- er- lover and you can't just do that. Not anymore."

He straightened the wrinkles in his coat from his little explosion. The coat still the only thing he was wearing, and walked over to the window as he picked up his violin.

"... ... ... apologies."

"Yes. Well you can go now. Goodbye."

Sherlock continued to mutter a few words and began to play that violin, beckoning Mycroft out. When he left Sherlock put the instrument down and walked over to John still sitting in his chair. He crouched, grabbed hold of his shoulders and looked at him with concern.

"Are you alright John?"

"Yeah me I'm fine, it wasn't like I woke up to your brother watching us sleep when we were both naked and then having you choose a liver over me after what happened. Yeah no really I'm fine, not to mention, I'm also gay. Properly."

"Oh."

"Yeah some people need time Sherlock."

"Not good?"

"No."

"I'm sorry then."

Sherlock saying sorry was something new. Not that John minded of course, just new. The man in front of him was indeed Sherlock Holmes and yet, he was so much more.


End file.
